The Number Six
by morningmagpie
Summary: How has Draco come to live in California? Why's he so attracted to the new girl in town? And why in God's name does she look so familiar? A story of swearing, americana music, sexual frustration, predictable TV and finding home. Featuring Rugged!Draco
1. Familiarity

**Summary**: **ALERT!** This story might not make any sense unless you read this first. I had the idea that those involved with the Death Eaters might have had their memories erased (they no longer know that they had magical abilities and are made to live like Muggles). At the age of eighteen, Draco Malfoy's memory of being a wizard ceases to exist and he begins his life again as a Muggle. Years pass, and he sees a familiar looking girl in a coffee shop.

P.S. His name is no longer the same, by the by. I thought they'd have to change it, so people wouldn't recognize it or think it totally bizarre (know any Draco Malfoy's yourself?)

Started out as a one-shot and I couldn't help it; I had to write out the story behind it. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter One  
**

He has been to the coffee shop on the corner a total number of five times in his life. He likes this number; it's a factor of his age (25); it's the amount of years he's spent in his flat; it's the time he wakes up in the morning. He has often wondered if he always liked this number, but he cannot remember anything before he was eighteen. He has spent many an odd night searching for photographs that he knows do not exist, picking through his belongings in search of a diary or a letter, for he knows that he must have had parents and he thinks that they _must _have left him something. But he hasn't found anything yet and he's given up hope of ever hearing from his family.

Today will be the sixth time he's visited that coffee shop on the corner. He does not like the number six very much; he does not know why for he cannot remember an event in his lifetime to make him dislike it so much. Was that a final grade on an exam? Was he sixth place in a race? Was he stood up six times? Did he not get what he wanted for Christmas when he was six years old?

He decides to forget it, because it has aggravated him many times before and he has never been able to recall memories from his past. Instead, he takes the scarf off of the hanger, wrapping it around his neck. The colors are still the same, faded with years of use that he cannot remember, because he's positive that he'd gotten it from someone when he was younger. The ends are unraveling and the green and silver (such unusual colors for a scarf, a girl from work had said when he'd first come in) has lost what he believes was its former luster. But he cannot stand the thought of getting rid of it, thinks that this scarf might be the only thing that his parents or his friends might have left behind, hoping he would one day figure out what it meant.

But Daniel Malcolm is averse to change, and because of this he thinks it would be unlikely of him to leave his home and travel in search of a family he does not remember. He does not see any likelihood in finding people who have never looked for him, however great his hope that they exist. Besides, Daniel likes his routines; he likes waking at five and eating breakfast five minutes later (after brushing his hair and washing his face). He likes walking to work and ignoring the chap who sits next to him. He likes coming home at five and eating Chinese takeout while watching the telly (although he's getting rather tired of that CSI show; it's become predictable).

It doesn't seem to make much sense for him to dislike predictability in TV shows, but he likes his literature and theatre and films to be impulsive. Perhaps it is because he cannot do it for himself. Perhaps it is because they might present insight. Perhaps they will enlighten him, remind him of a moment in his past. Perhaps they will suddenly cut to breaking news, the faces of his family and friends desperate to know where he is.

He's always wondered how a Brit like himself ended up in California, in a sleepy little town on the coast, working at an antiques warehouse where he rarely saw more than three people a day. He has thought up reasons for seven years. As usual, he has never come close to penetrating the road-block in his head that prevents him from knowing his old life.

He walks the short distance to the coffee shop, nearly running into a lanky man leaning against the wall, reading a newspaper. The man looks up and nods at him before returning to his reading. Daniel doesn't know quite what to make of him; he's seen this fellow before and for reasons he can't explain, he feels as though this man is watching him.

Inside, he orders a latte and what looks to be the most fattening thing on the menu, for his sweet tooth is unbelievable. He likes to sit at the table by the window; he has sat there every time he comes in. As he waits for his coffee, he notices a girl sitting at the next table. He has never seen her before. She's sipping a black liquid, most likely coffee, judging by her sleep-deprived eyes and the tightness around her mouth. She looks to be made entirely of the stuff, as if she's been filled to the brim with coffee to keep her afloat. Her limbs are slender and her hair is a mass of russet curls. She has wonderful hands; he notices that she has ink splotches on the pads of her fingers and she is now scribbling furiously into a journal or a notebook. Occasionally she glances up from her notebook to check something in a page from one of the numerous books surrounding her. She looks like a small island floating amidst her ocean of knowledge – ha, he thinks, perhaps that should be my pick up line for this one.

Glancing at the door (it is now seven thirty in the morning; he has normally left by now), he grabs his latte and pastry and walks over to her. She looks up at him and he sees something like recognition and pain in her dark eyes. He does not understand; does he know her? Have they dated? She fiddles with the papers to her right and her entire body is suddenly wound up as tight as a spring. He considers the fact that he should leave, if her body language is anything to go on. But he doesn't want to leave and he can't figure out why the bloody hell not. She's familiar, he's certain of it.

He is still holding his pastry on its plate in his right hand and he feels slightly ridiculous. She is looking at him curiously, her head cocked to one side. He ha a feeling that she understands people very well.

"Hello." He notices that his voice is scratchy – since when has he been nervous talking to a girl? And since when was he only capable of uttering single-word sentences?

"Hello." Her voice is pleasant, lower than he had expected. "Won't you sit down?" She pushes the chair out toward him with her foot and he sits down across from her.

"I've only got a mo' before I've got to run to work, but I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Daniel Malcolm." He extends his hand and she grasps it; her hand is so warm and small in his that he momentarily forgets that he is an amnesiac with a shit job and no recollection of a family.

"I'm Herm - er, Helen. I'm Helen Graves."

He likes the way she sounds, as if intelligence and facts and theories are welling up inside of her. He's only got a few minutes to find out what he wants to know, so he asks her outright if she's single. The shock on her face is almost priceless and before he leaves, he's sure that he's gotten her number. Walking to work, Daniel whistles some annoying new pop song he'd heard on the radio, and he's so deliciously happy that he's thinking ridiculous like _Sixth time's the charm_.

Behind him, Hermione Granger remains at her table, staring down at her notes with a dogged determination. Finally, she makes eye contact with the lanky man outside the window and realizes that she had not prepared for this.

**End Notes**: Yep, Daniel Malcolm is Draco Malfoy and Helen Graves is Hermione Granger. Anyone wondering why she lied about her name?


	2. Memory

Author's Note: This story is categorized as humorous, and I promise you, we'll get there. This chapter is a little somber, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel. This story won't get too angsty on ya.

**Chapter Two**

Hermione Granger had been one of the first to suggest that the Malfoys – and those from Pureblood families – live amongst Muggles. She was reluctant to admit it, but she relished the idea of it; the arrogant Malfoys stripped of their magic and forced to work in restaurants, waiting on people they once thought were "filthy". Ron told her the idea wasn't healthy; Harry told her that everyone had already lost enough. But Hermione ignored their misgivings; she was so consumed by her sick form of vengeance.

As months passed, the Ministry rebuilt itself and with it came the Committee for the Reconstruction and Betterment of the Wizarding World, led by Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom. Her aspiration to eradicate any remaining prejudice came mainly from the fact that her parents' memory of her had been irretrievable. She'd called upon dozens of Healers, Muggle doctors, hypnotists, potions masters, but nothing had worked. Throwing herself into the committee had been her only way to heal.

Unsurprisingly, when Hermione brought up the idea in a meeting, the committee had needed little convincing. Composed of old members of the DA and a couple of Ministry veterans, they all thought it would be beneficial for Purebloods to understand how Muggles lived. Some even went so far as to suggest that ex Death Eaters observe Muggles they had tortured, but even Hermione's zealousness stopped there. Instead, it was decided that every Pureblood convicted of a war crime be made to live as a Muggle for several months. Every participant was to be monitored regularly by an overseer and they would be temporarily stripped of their wands.

In the first month, the families were brought to the Ministry and given basic training; Ron had laughed himself hoarse when he'd heard that Malfoy had been subjected to an hour long lecture on Muggle cooking techniques. Hermione often attended the classes, interjecting when she saw fit. She noticed how strangely Malfoy would look at her, as if every ounce of his arrogance had fallen at her feet, as if he was telling her that she now owned it. He no longer sneered at her and she often wondered why. After all, she was in control of his life now; she would be the one to decide what was right and wrong of him to do. And yet he never mustered more than a lazy look of boredom, watching her take away his life.

* * *

It was late spring when the committee casually suggested temporary memory loss. They said that the experience could be richer; no prejudices to cloud their Pureblooded perception. The Purebloods would simply be in a world they had yet to uncover, a phrase that exploded across pamphlets and newspapers and journals around Britain. Hermione shot the proposal down instantly, but that did not stop word from spreading. It wasn't long before influential Ministry workers believed wholeheartedly in the idea and before Hermione quite understood how it had happened, she was performing memory spells around the clock.

It made her sick, knowing that her idea had created this. She realized too late how quickly she had fallen into her own trap; her prejudice and grief had blinded her and she was powerless to stop what was already so far in motion.

On the day of the Malfoy's appointment, Hermione shuffled and reshuffled the papers she had prepared. She had her statement; after she'd said that, all she would need was their signatures and then she'd be off. She thanked an extraordinarily diverse amount of gods that she was not the witch performing the Obliviation spell this time. She wasn't certain as to why, but the idea of erasing Malfoy's memory of magic did not give her any satisfaction. The idea that he would no longer be whole because of something she had done nearly made her vomit over the edge of her desk.

A knock at her door alerted her and the Malfoys walked in, looking so strange in dark, albeit wealthy and well-made, Muggle clothing. They sat across from her, their luggage conspicuously in the corner. Every few seconds, Mrs. Malfoy would glance at it, as if the trunks might swallow her whole.

"Will we at least be together?" she had asked. Hermione said yes, for she could see no cause for separation. This was the only thing that any of them asked. She remembered Malfoy looking at her again, in that odd way of his he had adopted ever since the war had ended. She kept thinking that she wanted to sit down and talk to him alone.

"We've arranged for you to live in California. Funds have been set up in two bank accounts – one for Draco and one for yourselves. If there is any reason that your adjustment to Muggle life is going anything other than smoothly, Ministry officials will be there to assist you. No one will perform magic in front, near, or around you. No one will mention anything related to our world. After you have fulfilled your allotted time of seven months, your memories will be restored to you. We here at the Ministry hope that you will present a statement explaining what you learned from your experience." Hermione paused, carefully examining the looks on their faces. All of them looked annoyingly and frighteningly calm. "Healer Davies will be in shortly. Good day."

She locked eyes with Malfoy before she left. She wouldn't see him for another seven years.

* * *

**Present**

Hermione had suspected for a long time that Draco Malfoy was never "recovered" from California, as the Ministry officials so eloquently stated several years ago. In a shoddy report written by Draco's ex-overseer, the man stated the Malfoy had wished to remain in California, even though his memory had been restored. Draco's parents, who apparently had never traveled with him, had died shortly after their appointment seven years ago, killed by extremist supporters of the new Ministry. The report explained that Malfoy had not attended their funeral or been knowledgeable of their death due to the threat against his own life were he to show up.

As she stares down at the report, a scant six pages long, she takes a sip of coffee. She feels as though she hasn't slept in weeks. She's tracked Malfoy to this town, one that is hundreds of miles away from his original drop off. There is no name under Appointed Apparator, and she's so frustrated that the Ministry could let something like this happen that she nearly throws her mug across the café.

_Or you're just frustrated by the fact that you've mucked this all up, too. If you hadn't collapsed the committee, files like his would be easier to come by. He might not have been so easily dismissed._

She checks a witness statement for the third time, jotting down a note to ask Ron if Draco had shown any signs of recognition. Looking around to see if Ron's inside, she finds herself staring up at none other than Draco Malfoy himself. Her heart slams itself against her ribs so forcefully that she's relatively surprised that it didn't pop out of her chest. She can't remember how to close her mouth and she's both terrified and strangely relieved that he's standing in front of her.

He doesn't look anything like the Malfoy she knew in school and after the war. For Merlin's sake, this Malfoy is wearing a flannel shirt underneath a jacket that might have been salvaged from a fucking _thrift store_. This Malfoy is wearing _jeans_. He's got at least a week's worth of stubble on his face and he's bloody smiling at her.

"Hello."

He's wearing his old scarf and she swallows at the lump in her throat.

"Hello." She's sure that she's dazzling him with her knack for conversation. "Won't you sit down?" As graceless and impolite as a cow, she kicks the chair across from her toward his feet. He sits, still smiling, and tells her his name, even though if he took the time to glance down, he'd notice it written all over her notes.

He asks her if she's single and she wonders if it's possible to have the wind kicked out of you while sitting down in a café. For a moment, she has no idea what to say. And then, like a thing possessed, she says no, and suddenly they're exchanging phone numbers and she's lying about her name and then he's gone, out the door and on to work.

She looks down at her notes and considers following him to the antiques warehouse. Thinking better of it, she begins to gather all of her things into her bag, glancing up at Ron outside. He stares back at her solemnly and she mutters "_shit" _under her breath before stomping out of the café.

**End Notes: **If you like, hit that button!


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